Council, page 4
‘Uppsala.’
He wasn’t sure which of the cloth piles had grunted, but as they came out of the forest, there it was nonetheless: lazy smoke trails from far too many cook-fires to count snaking their way skywards from so many longhouses and huts all scattered higgledy-piggledy, as if someone had thrown them from the hill.
Breki’s eyes widened.
On the summit of the hill was the biggest building he’d ever seen. He’d heard stories of the temple at Uppsala, of course – who hadn’t? – but none that did it justice. The midday sun broke out from the clouds and suddenly silent lightning erupted from the big tower in its centre and went flashing across the wooden structure, shooting towards the far corners of the great building.
Big Rolf leaned over to him and said, ‘You might want to consider closing your mouth some time soon before a bird decides to nest in it.’
Breki shook his head and shrugged. ‘I . . . wasn’t . . . I mean . . .’
‘Yes, you were,’ Big Rolf chuckled. ‘Gawking like you’d seen the eight-legged horse hisself. And that won’t do for a Northern lord in Ingileif’s retinue, and even less for a squirt like you.’
‘But . . . but . . . the lightning . . .’
‘Yes. It’s an awesome sight, for sure, knocks anyone sideways the first time. Do you know why?’ When Breki shook his head, Big Rolf laughed and told him, ‘There are golden chains strung from the top of the tower to the corners to catch the light and make it look like the gods are touching us. Looks incredible, in truth, but really, it was just some poor sod up a ladder with a hammer and nails.’
Breki looked back at the temple and snorted. ‘Nothing is as it seems, is it?’
‘Exactly.’ Big Rolf looked him up and down, as if the old man had just remembered who he was. ‘Maybe there’s hope for you yet, little Breki.’
Breki couldn’t help but smile. Even two summers ago the man they called Big Rolf had barely reached his shoulders, and by now Breki was nobody’s idea of little. He’d been awkward for his age, a gangly tree of a boy, until his eleventh summer, when he’d suddenly gone through a great spurt which included more than his share of muscle. Wrestling had been so much more fun after that. Now, even though he was a good head taller than most of the grown men, Big Rolf still called him little Breki, and while he always took care to pretend to be offended, he didn’t stray too far from the old man. When he was a little boy he’d told his father that Big Rolf had the grey hairs of a coward. His father had cuffed him soundly, then explained that two kinds of men got grey hairs: cowards, and wise men. He’d asked whether Breki wanted to call Big Rolf a coward to his face and of course Breki hadn’t, and that was that.
Big Rolf broke into his memories. ‘Let’s go through it again.’
Breki rolled his eyes. ‘Why?’
‘Because the building material that was spent on you all went to the shoulders and arms and I’m not sure what’s inside your massive head. What are you supposed to do?’
‘Stay quiet and look dumb.’
‘Excellent. You’re doing well at that already. Lots of practise, huh? And what else?’
‘Remember everything.’
‘That’s right.’ The old man leaned back in the saddle, apparently satisfied. No one had bothered to explain to Breki exactly why this was so important, but judging by the number of times Rolf had broken up the journey just to drill it into him – stay quiet, look dumb, remember everything – it was apparently crucial to the success of the mission. That was a better conclusion than the other possibility: that the old man was just as bored as he was.
As Ingileif’s party made its way slowly across the fields, more of Uppsala came into view. The temple dwarfed its surroundings, but Breki could not help but be impressed by the sheer number of houses. There were more of them on the hill and dotted around than he’d ever even imagined, let alone seen.
‘How many people live here?’ he asked Big Rolf.
‘It depends on the season. Now? I reckon King Eirik’s court counts about sixty followers in summer: some lords, some younger sons from strong families, mercenaries, of course, and fortune-hunters. They have servants, karls and retinues, say about seven to a man, give or take. That’s already around four hundred—’
‘Four hundred and twenty, twenty-one if you count the king,’ Breki replied without thinking.
Big Rolf pretended not to hear him. ‘Around four hundred. He’ll have blacksmiths, tanners, farmers, merchants and thralls for that lot – about a hundred more. Give or take. Then you have the wives, children and useless, lumbering boy-oafs. And soon, we’ll add to that tally.’
Breki whistled. ‘That’s a lot of people in one place.’
‘It is,’ said Rolf, eyes twinkling. ‘Any number of vagabonds and young glory-seekers just like you, all hoping to pick up crumbs from the king’s table.’
‘But why are we here now, if it’s so busy?’ asked Breki.
‘Because the king sent for us, that’s why.’
‘I know that. I saw the messenger just as much as you did. But why did he summon Ingileif?’
‘He can call on his council whenever his spotty Majesty pleases – he did, so we’re here. Councils are important: we go, we trade, we hear news and we argue a lot before we agree on anything. King Eirik may be young, but he is no fool. He knows that the North goes as she goes.’ Big Rolf nodded up towards the figure in the front. Ingileif, called the North Wind, was a square shape of a woman, a little older than Breki’s parents. He couldn’t remember ever seeing her do anything out of the ordinary, but she’d been the chieftain of his valley and the surrounding area for as long as he could remember and no one had ever challenged her or spoken against her. A year ago, when he’d said as much to Big Rolf, the old man had told him to glance, when he could, at Ingileif’s knuckles. A little later Breki had had the chance. He’d not had to ask for more explanation since.
A child came out of a hut, saw them and immediately sprinted away, but none of the riders up front so much as raised a finger; they just sat there, letting the horses set the pace. It looked like the North Wind didn’t much care to make a lord’s entrance, Breki thought.
As they drew closer, the arrangement of houses started to look less haphazard. A road snaking around the hill rose towards the entrance to the temple on the far side. The houses that had looked to be scattered around just anyhow were in fact all connected to this road by steps and walkways and smaller paths. The whole place reminded him a little of a tree – he almost expected to see a squirrel scampering up and down.
A small group of men had appeared on the road and were walking towards them.
‘That’ll be the welcome, then,’ Big Rolf mumbled. ‘Let’s see what they think of us.’
Breki thought the North Wind must have seen them, but Ingileif made no move to hurry. Nor did she dismount or in any way recognise the fact that she was riding into the king’s home town. ‘Why isn’t she doing something?’ he whispered to Big Rolf.
The old man smiled. ‘It’s much better to do less and have them wondering what we are about. Makes it more likely that they’ll make mistakes. In negotiations it never hurts to let your opponent make the first move.’
‘Opponent? But we’re all from the land of the Svear, aren’t we?’ Breki whispered back. ‘And the Svear stay together. Don’t we?’
Big Rolf just pointed towards the Uppsala group, who had stopped a little way away. The locals were facing them, waiting for the visitors to approach. ‘Watch and learn, little Breki.’
The one at the front was one of the biggest men Breki had ever seen. He was more than a head taller than the men at his side, with a chest to match. He looked less like a human and more like a bear to Breki’s eyes.
‘Who’s that?’ he muttered, trying to keep his voice as quiet as possible so the man-mountain wouldn’t notice him. Behind the big man was a group of four strong young men who all looked like pups in comparison.
Big Rolf frowned. ‘That’s Alfgeir Bjorne, the king’s right hand. This is interesting.’
‘Why?’ asked Breki.
‘Quiet. I’ll tell you later.’
‘Well met, North Wind!’ the big man boomed.
‘Well met, Alfgeir Bjorne,’ Ingileif replied. She was looking more like a grizzled old troll herself, something that had just walked out of the forest, than a woman.
After a short silence the Uppsala man spoke. ‘I trust you’ve had a good journey?’
Breki noticed that two of the men behind Alfgeir were exchanging quick glances. A third wore just a hint of an ironic smile.
‘Good enough,’ the chieftain replied after a pause of her own. ‘Always an honour to come at the king’s request,’ she added. ‘Always an honour.’
‘Yes,’ Alfgeir replied, ‘and the king is very pleased to see you. The others are on their way. There will be a feast for your men. Follow me! We’ll see that your horses are seen to before you’re fed. The northern stables should do,’ he added over his shoulder to the young man who had appeared at his elbow.
Without another word, the welcome delegation from Uppsala turned and started walking up towards the top of the hill.
Big Rolf poked Breki’s shoulder. ‘You’re the youngest, so you get the horses. We’ll go and make sure the maidens are all locked up for when you return.’
Breki grinned. ‘If the stories are true they’ll be all in the same room and you in the middle, hiding from shadows and Norsemen.’
‘You’ll need a bigger mouth than that to fit my—’
‘Enough,’ said Ingileif, who’d somehow circled round unseen. ‘Shut up, Rolf. You talk too much; always have. You’re with me. Eldar’ – she turned to a tawny-bearded, broad-faced man – ‘take the cart. Stake out a camp, then return to the longhouse. You know what to do.’ This was followed by a significant glance at the cart up front, which somehow managed to look threatening even though it was not moving at all. ‘Boy—’ Breki didn’t know if the chieftain had trouble remembering his name, or if she simply didn’t care. Best not think too much on that. ‘Boy, we’ll walk from here. You’ll see to the horses – Alfgeir’s man will show you the way.’ With a grace that belied her years and stature, Ingileif dismounted.
Following her lead, three of her men followed suit. Rolf reached up and clapped Breki on the shoulder. ‘You heard her, so do as you’re told.’ Eldar was already heading away with the cart and the remaining men.
Within moments, Breki was left with six horses and one thoroughly unimpressed local boy who looked bored of waiting and uninterested in helping. Grabbing three reins in each hand, he asked, ‘Where’s the barn, then?’
Without replying, his guide walked off.
*
‘What’s wrong?’
Helga’s chest tightened. Just his voice was enough to create a reaction and now he was standing by his shovel, leaning on it and looking at her as well. The way his hips and his shoulders lined up like that, the slight bulge of muscle in the arm he was flexing, was making it a little difficult for her to get any words out.
‘What do you mean?’ she managed after a moment, although of course she knew full well what he meant. She’d been out of sorts all morning, closed off in her own head. He’d offered to help her dig out a new bed, but for all they’d been working side by side since daybreak, she’d not laughed at any of his jokes or risen to any of his more ribald suggestions, or even engaged in any sort of meaningful conversation.
‘You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?’
So he did know. ‘Yes,’ she said quietly, wondering why this death had affected her more than the others she’d seen. They were old men, old women and drunks – oh, and two fighting men, murdered by their own kin . . . but this one? He was just a boy. A soft, harmless boy.
‘There’s something wrong about it,’ she admitted at last. Maybe it will help to talk it through. The soft soil felt alive in her hands and she could feel the pressure as she drove the seeds into the ground, perhaps a little harder than was strictly necessary. ‘I think he was attacked without reason and killed without any honour.’
She glanced up at Freysteinn, but he didn’t move. Come over here, you bastard. Come over here and touch me and tell me I’m wrong and make me believe it. But if he could hear her thoughts, he didn’t obey but just stood there, looking concerned. For me, or the dead boy? she wondered.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure,’ she snapped. ‘I wouldn’t say it if I wasn’t. He was hit twice from behind, with a rock, stripped of his possessions and thrown in the river.’ She looked at him, eyes flashing – and something in her sank. I’ve stung him. Freysteinn was looking shocked at her sharpness and somewhere she felt a flash of fear. He’ll leave. The thought was gone as soon as it was born, but the bitter taste of it remained. She wished fervently that she could take it back, or maybe just say it more gently. Would Mother have apologised to a man? The thought slipped in like a scent on the wind, followed by another: She’d never have put herself in a position to need to.
Freysteinn gave her an appraising eye. ‘Maybe I could tell Alfgeir the next time I see him, if you want,’ he said finally. ‘And he could tell the king.’
But you don’t believe me. She took a breath and forced the tension out of her voice. ‘I want to tell King Eirik as soon as possible, and I want to do it myself – but I’d be very happy to have you by my side as I do so.’
He smiled. ‘Of course, my love.’
She could feel herself blush, and for some reason that made her furious. The feeling was warm and tickly and tight, but somehow she didn’t feel like it was hers. She scanned his face for smugness, a knowledge of what he was doing to her – but there was none. Just that beautiful, beautiful mouth . . . In her mind she made a note to use all the tricks she could think of to reduce him to a quivering wreck at the earliest opportunity. ‘What do you say we finish this and then ride into town?’
His eyes sparkled, but he checked himself. ‘Yes,’ he said after he had pushed whatever he wanted to say first to the side. ‘We’ll ride in. By then maybe the Northmen will have arrived.’
The bloody Northmen! She bit down hard. Since the council had been announced she’d been preparing herb bags, tinctures and mixtures and various other handy things to trade, but the boy in the forest had completely knocked them all out of her head. Feeling a sudden burst of energy, she grinned up at Freysteinn and this time set to planting with a will. There were trades to be made, and a conversation to be had with the king.
*
The northern stables were bigger than any longhouse Breki had seen, but the familiar sharp smell of horse dung reminded him of home.
‘You can bed them down here,’ the boy said, friendlier now his task was done. He took one set of reins from Breki and tying them loosely to a post just inside the door, pointed down the length of the barn. ‘The guest stalls are up there, at the far end. Take any of the empty ones; they can have one each, there’s plenty of room. You’ll find buckets, combs and brushes, picks and the like all over there.’ He pointed vaguely at some rough-hewn shelves barely visible in the dusky gloom. ‘Come to the King’s Hall when you’re done. It’s the big one – you can’t miss it. There’ll be food.’
‘Thank you,’ Breki said, but his host was already walking silently away. He sighed and walked over to the shelves. His back and legs were aching, but the animals needed seeing to. He grabbed a couple of the brushes, a bone pick and some rags before untying Ingileif’s mount and leading it to the far end of the building. Sure enough, there were plenty of empty stalls; it looked like almost half the stable building was empty. He started brushing the horse clean, just like he’d done every day since he’d been big enough to reach over the back. How many horses would four hundred people need? he wondered idly. They’d brought four packhorses themselves, even though that had left only a handful at home.
Ingileif’s horse whinnied softly, interrupting his thoughts, enjoying the firm brush strokes. When he’d finished grooming, Breki checked the hooves. They were fine, as he’d expected, for they’d been travelling on soft grass the whole way. He loaded the trough with hay and made sure the animal was contented before fetching the next one.
They were all standing patiently at the pole he’d tied them to. ‘You’re not really that concerned, are you?’ Breki said to them, and when one of the mares snorted in reply, ‘All right, all right. It’s your turn next.’
He worked in silence, remembering spring days at the farm, finding the mindless, repetitive task oddly soothing. It felt good to be doing something useful after the interminable days of slow, boring riding.
As he led the last animal in, an odd scuffing sound and a deep snort told him he was no longer alone in the barn. He looked around, confused, and called, ‘Hello? Is someone there?’ No one replied, but the feeling of unease didn’t leave him. It suddenly occurred to him that he was to all intents and purposes a stranger in someone else’s stable and he might quite easily be killed for a horse-thief.
He wasn’t able to shake the feeling that something was out of place . . . There. He was positive he’d glimpsed a shadow in one of the stalls. He sidled across and looked in – and immediately took two steps back. The animal within was massive, easily four times the size of a regular horse, the colour of a stormy night in winter. And there was something wrong with its legs. There were far too many of them.
He blinked and the image was gone.
The stall was still occupied, sure enough, but this horse was a regular one, with the normal four legs, and none too spectacular at that. A wiry old man with thin, wispy hair and a white beard was humming tunelessly to himself as he brushed it down. He wore layers upon layers of tattered grey travelling clothes. A wrist-thick quarterstaff with a slightly pointed end was propped up in the corner.
